


Hold On Tight

by silbecoo



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:18:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: He remembers what she looked like when she told him, eyes glistening, a half formed apology on her lips. He just shakes his head, denial pushing away all other emotions. He can't do it again.





	1. Chapter 1

CH1

It’s not the best night for it. The rain his coming down in heavy sheets, and the wind occasionally whips it right back in his face. But he finds the cold bracing, the downpour a much needed shock to his system. His head's been cloudy lately, too much warmth, too much softness, too much rest and god damned relaxation. And it's made him fuck up, monumentally. He curses, and the angry sound is swept away into the night. Letting his guard down has always had unthinkable consequences, and he’d rather be out tracking down some sex-trafficking monster in a torrential downpour than facing the fear collecting in his lungs, gathering around his heart. 

He raises the scope of his gun for what feels like the tenth time, scanning the row of windows along the adjacent warehouse’s southern wall. The inside of the building is dimly lit, but the bastard running the operation has gotten too cocky to tarp the windows. Frank has clear view of what’s going on inside the building. It isn’t a pleasant sight. 

A group of girls stumble out of a nondescript van, their hands tied with plastic zips. They huddle together blindly out of fear and a need for warmth, filthy blindfolds covering their eyes. They’re so young, their silent cooperation borne of terror. Frank doesn’t have to imagine the source of their fear, he can see it on the predatory smile of their ‘owner.’ 

Frank’s jaw tenses as he mentally calculates exactly how many shots it will take to put down the six men standing around the group of captives. They’re low level operators, and won’t be missed by many. Frank relishes the looks of surprised shock that flit across their faces when he shoots the man in charge. The back of his skull explodes outward in a pink mist as the bullet exits. The men barely have time to process their horror before each meet their own painful demise, not managing to scatter even ten feet before they hit the dirty warehouse floor. 

The girls are unaware of the carnage. The initial shattering of glass makes them cower, trembling quietly as the harsh sound is followed by six muffled thuds. Frank immediately drops the scope of the gun, focusing on putting his equipment away. He’ll call in a tip once he’s a couple blocks away, give the cops of this city a chance to help someone for a change. The rain’s letting up. It’ll be a nice walk back home… The thought causes a slight twinge, just under his rib cage. The safe house isn’t home, and neither is the place he’s gone so many nights before. He reminds himself that home is a pile of ash, nothing more. 

He hears it just as he’s zipping his ammo bag, the familiar light-footed running along the top of the next building over. Murdock and his superhero costume, knee high boots and all, special no-skid tread catching the edge of the roof before catapulting over, perilously close to Frank. 

Frank just shakes his head, “Too late, Red. It’s done.” 

Matt doesn’t immediately launch into his usual self-righteous spiel, and that worries Frank. Maybe Red doesn’t even know about the pricks in the warehouse. That means the altar boy is here for another reason. 

Matt just sighs, “Do I even want to know what you’ve been up to?” 

Frank shrugs, shouldering his bag and turning toward the fire escape. “Beats me, Murdock. You’re always so goddamned determined to find out though. What the hell are you doing all the way out here if you don’t know about the pieces of shit I just sent to an early grave?” 

Frank swings his bag over the side of the building, jumping down onto the escape without waiting for Matt to answer. The tenacious asshole follows, just like Frank knew he would. 

“Frank, damn it, I never thought you’d be a coward. Running away isn't your style. What the hell am I supposed to tell Karen, huh? I was hoping I could go back and say you’d been gone for months because you were tied up, literally.” 

At the sound of Karen’s name Frank’s head snaps up, zeroing in on the unseeing eyes of Matt’s mask. “Tell her I’m dead.” 

“I can’t lie to her.” 

Frank laughs hollowly, the derision in his voice apparent. “That’s not what I’ve heard.” 

Matt lets his barely contained contempt fly loose, jumping down on the fire escape with Frank, planting a swift kick right in the punisher’s chest. Frank lets him do it, almost enjoying the pain of the rail digging into his back as the air leaves his lungs. Matt is soon on top of him, one baton pressing down on Frank’s windpipe, a knee in his chest. “They deserve better than this, you asshole.” 

Frank springs forward, throwing Matt off angrily. He practically roars, “I know! That’s why I left!” 

* * *

Lisa and Frank Jr. had both looked like their mother. Strawberry blonde hair, sweet smiles. Hell, even the curve of their tiny ears had resembled Maria’s. It was only little Frankie’s dark and questioning eyes that had looked like his father’s. Those eyes are why Frank doesn’t like looking in the mirror these days. He’s haunted, wondering what they saw before closing forever. 

It’s all he can think about on the way back to his safe house. His kids, the light that emanated from them, the way their voices sounded saying his name. It's his own eyes staring back at him filled full of pain and asking him why all of this had to happen. If Matt fucking Murdock knew one single thing about what it was to be Frank Castle he wouldn’t have bothered coming to find him, no matter the reason. 

But then again, maybe Murdock does know a thing or two about him, because Frank finds himself turning the wrong direction about halfway to his destination, the iron in his blood suddenly magnetized, pulling him back north like the wayward needle of a wildly spinning compass. 

Her apartment is quiet and dark. He waits a good twenty minutes after knocking on her window before he jimmies the latch and slips inside. Her things are still here like normal, only everything is meticulously clean. There are no dishes in the sink, no laundry in the hamper, no towels drying on the rod in the bathroom. Her bed is made smoothly, the pillows fluffed and tucked under the duvet’s crisp edges. Even the kitchen is perfectly empty, nothing but a weakly flickering light greets him when he opens the fridge. She’s definitely staying somewhere else, even if it does appear to be temporarily. A twinge of guilt arcs through him, but he’s glad she has a support system when things are difficult. 

He leaves the way he came, securing the window better than before. The next place he checks is a no-go as well. It doesn’t take more than a glance or two to see no one is at Matt’s apartment, to see that it’s still a sloppy bachelor pad, no sign of Karen. 

Frank catches Foggy on his way home from _Josie’s_ , nearly giving the lawyer a heart attack when the punisher steps out of the shadows for some friendly conversation. “Karen?” Well, it’s not exactly friendly, nor is it really conversation, but the shorter man seems to catch his drift anyway. 

“N-no, she’s gone.” He’s stumbling over his words, sweaty palms searching through all of his pockets for something. Frank hopes it isn’t a gun. He’s really not in the mood to disarm someone who has no idea which end the bullet even comes out of. Just as he’s about to leave and save Foggy the embarrassment, the lawyer lights on something in his breast pocket. “Here, she said to give this to you, if you showed up.” 

It’s a torn piece of notebook paper, Karen’s precise handwriting marching across its lined surface. An address, nothing more. He doesn’t know whether or not that’s a good thing, but Foggy looks anxious to be on his way, and Frank is not inclined to engage him in conversation. “Thanks.” 

Foggy hesitates for a split second, biting his bottom lip. “Look, I don’t know what the hell happened between you, or why Karen has been so stubborn about… everything, but things are different now. She needs you–” 

Frank silences him with a cutting glare. “No one needs me, least of all Karen.” 

Foggy snaps his mouth shut, his nerves still jumpy. He hasn’t had much reason to be around Frank, and he’s still incredibly wary. This time he lets Frank disappear into the shadows without a word. 


	2. Chapter 2

He carries the piece of paper around for weeks, the two line address instantly memorized. He can feel it, burning in the pocket of his coat as he checks his nightly haunts, and he tries to forget about what'll be waiting for him if he ever decides to trek all the way up to rural Maine. He can't think about it, not yet. 

There hasn't been a big fish on the menu for a while now. He stalks the low life creeps, the one-off perverts and murderers who don't belong to any particular band of assholes. He follows them into alleys, snapping their necks with gusto, bashing their heads in with whatever’s nearby. They're not worth wasting bullets. 

He drops off the city’s radar, his latest modus operandi something that doesn't put up any red flags on the crime beat. There is no detective with a wall of red pins trying to figure out what the hell is going on. He's sure to make it look like robbery gone wrong, just another statistic about why it's shitty to live in the big city. The creeps are every background imaginable, ranging in age from twenty-two to sixty, careless assholes who've gotten too comfortable in their despicable lifestyles. 

He almost feels a kinship with them, some part of his black soul calling out in the night. The joy he feels when they draw their last breaths is a stone’s throw away from whatever drives them to their own dirty business. But he isn't them, and he knows it, his code is protective more than anything, a twisted and gnarled semblance of honor pushing him to find some kind of atonement. It's harder to remember that these days. 

His latest target is the most unassuming yet, and Frank wonders if maybe he got it wrong, if the wires got crossed somehow and he followed the wrong person tonight. The man is not young or old, but comfortably middle-aged, reading glasses in his left pocket and a dollar store comb in his right. He's soft looking, pudgy in the middle, dressed in varying shades of taupe, boring, nearly invisible. It's possible that he's attractive or repulsive underneath the day’s worth of stubble and the formless clothing. The women he talks to as he finishes his nightly errands don't give any indication either way. 

Frank keeps to the shadows as they go along, wondering why the man is straying so far from the address that Micro forwarded him. There's nowhere to go this time of night, not in this neighborhood. 

His target stops abruptly, turning ninety degrees to vault up a set of steep steps, pushing open a heavy carved door. It's a church, big with vicious looking gargoyles perched along the crumbling façade, an inexplicably medieval vibe about the whole place even though the structure can’t be more than a hundred years old. 

Frank waits a minute, then follows the man’s path. The smell of candle wax and dust take him back to a past he doesn't visit often. The memory of his mother darts into his mind, her crushed velvet hat perched atop dark curls, head bent in silent reverence as she recites an oft repeated prayer. It's been a long time since he crossed the threshold of a holy place, and even longer since he believed. He doesn't like being here. 

The place is cavernous, and Frank takes a seat in the back. Other people searching for answers dot the pews in front of him. He supposed he doesn't look too out of place. Almost everyone here looks like they've been haunted by some nightmare or another. The invisible man is leaning in front of several rows of candles, a match in one hand, a thin silver necklace dangling in the other. He lights a single candle, carefully coiling the chain around the base of the votive. 

A cold chill passes over Frank, and suddenly he knows. This unassuming nobody is exactly the person he's looking for. He waits for the man to leave and walks up to the flickering light. The chain glints in the light of the flame. It's attached to a little heart, the same one that's been plastered over the city’s newspapers for the last week. Only this time it's not resting gently around the neck of a recently missing eleven year old girl. 

Frank follows his target into the night when he goes to leave the church, sick in his very bones at the thought of what this prick has done. The girl wasn't much older than Lisa, even had the same unruly mane of red-blonde hair. This isn't a world where children are safe, and it ever will be. 

The invisible man’s neck snaps beneath Frank’s fingers, no blood, no mess. Three more hours remain until sunrise. He can't go to the safe house, he can't go home, he can't go to Maine. 

* * *

Karen likes the quiet. It's the one thing she’d missed about living in Vermont, and now she has it again. She can hear the soft shushing of the wind in the trees, the crickets chirping away on the first clear night all week. It should be calming, a succor for her ragged soul, but she can't push away the worry lurking in the corners of her mind. It's like the ticking of a clock, ever present, fading away in the bustle of daytime, as loud as a door slamming when night descends. 

Frank has been gone too long. They've fought before, but it was different the last time. That time she watched pain flare behind his eyes, fear catch the breath in his chest, the shutters come down over his features. She watched him tuck away whatever humanity he had when talking to her, and for the first time she was truly afraid that she was losing him, that he was losing himself. 

Things had been going so well up until her softly whispered confession. Working together was like finally finding a missing puzzle piece, the satisfaction of feeling it smoothly click into place. He knew what she was thinking before she said it, could tell her exactly the holes in her plans and what she needed to do to shore them up. He had her back, but also let her take the lead. 

And they talked, about everything. About family and pain, and the way the sunrise looked on a foggy morning. Sure, Frank was usually like a rusty coil-spring trap, his jaw clamped firmly shut as she yammered on and on. But when the trap sprang open, the words came out tumbling one after another like he'd been saving them all up, his eyes crinkling with humor, and sparking with irritation. He'd been talking the first time she'd kissed him, standing a little too close, showing her the proper way to steady a sniper rifle, hands drifting from her arms to her side. 

He'd reacted exactly as she'd thought he would, freezing for a moment, unable to comprehend what the hell she thought she was doing. He took ten seconds to decide to fuck everything and take her lips in a bruising kiss, pinning her against the closest wall. The memory sends an ghost of pleasure up her spine, quickly followed by an emptiness she doesn't care to dwell on. 

There’s no one to talk to here, in the quiet. She's becoming something of an insomniac, unable to get comfortable, stacks of books littering the giant bed, a softly glowing lamp alight at all hours. She's getting so close, she can tell. It's a heaviness in the way she walks, a strange urge to collect things and arrange them just so. She wants everything to be perfect when the time comes, but it can't be perfect unless Frank is here. 

She gets up from the bed for what seems like the tenth time tonight, walking around the house from window to window, looking out across the lawn and down the drive. There's no one there. There never is.

**a/n: pls forgive typos etc, I write in my phone mostly and autocorrect is really weird sometimes. Also, thanks so much for the feedback I've gotten, it's probably 99% responsible for me feeling motivated to keep writing :D**


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